warm underwater
like wetter than weather
undulating thunder
like better than better
!!!
evil on him who thinks evil of it
Read morehe says
i’m borderline obsessed with you
i say borderline? strike it through
he says i want you, i need you, i love you
i say yes you do, i say yes you do
xyz
theboygoesdark
theboydespairs
buthe’sintheresomewhere
iknowhe’sthere
theboyisamemeticdream
hisconsciousnessaconstantstream
honestlyi’dlikeifhe
couldxyzalloverme
insatiable
AKA / nameless
i’ve talked about my name so much in icebreakers that it’s starting to dissolve. i think i’d respond to any name if you addressed me adoringly enough. i used to work casually at a shoe store that required us to wear nametags. they never printed one for me.
Read more985
honey. listen here. you can’t see
or know who i am, but i’ve been thinking
about this gap
about this refusal to love anything else.
about you, i guess. about you. i wish
the brain was more callous than it is, so
i might push this meandering want as far
away from me as possible. but all i can do is want.
& watching is pretty close to that
i wish touching were possible
through an ocean, or a screen. wish something
magical was arriving, so filled with grief i’m
your damn apostle, you are as scintillating as
wet lips on marble,
a pearl smudged to utter decadent completion.
Read moremusings from the Burj Khalifa spire
a poem can’t fix a hole punched through a wall
can’t call up your therapist to make an appointment
a poem can’t mute the warplanes, turn tragedy silent
or fold into shelter for those who require it
platforms
future emily,
you’re here. hello, and thank you. it’s the nineteenth of july in the year 2022. you are currently (as of writing) on a gap year. you have been enjoying the immense rest.
i have many questions. mostly, i want to know what you are doing. are you happy? are you grateful. how is everyone? mum; dad; the rugrats. how’s your health? i’m sure you’ve been thinking about that a lot, too. it’s always so up and down.
when i think about the future, i’m not sure exactly what excites me most. i’m thrilled and nervous about all of it. i have my moments of intense restlessness because i often want everything, all at once, right now. are you still impatient like that? or do you have it all?
Read morea new colour
does not always a new thought
make. how often have i been a fraud, i’m
afraid, how uninspired (is there an award for that) ?
how close to the edge do you have to be before
you notice you’re already falling ?
the day i won the lottery in Heaven
i was given the choice of an afterlifetime supply
of anything at all that my heart desired.
i didn’t much need to think: i asked, of course,
for fire.
unfurled
lucid loving
i’ve requested help from
all the world’s rivers, oceans,
& beaches
to supplement this terrible
sweetness, this shot-through
barrel swiftly losing liquid
through all this loving lucid
the wetness winding into a sigh
these spiralling circles of desire
how is it to be doused
but still unbearably on fire ?
the streets of Tuesday
familiar
where desire turns
disastrous, i’m already
cleaning consequence
make it constant
you are insanely divine, i can’t even explain
i feel safe around you. i just know
you’re special, & i adore you
damn beautiful
i’ll tell ya a little secret
a lot of things can be surprising, really
but being with you ?
it’s a victory.
a phantasy
“you sure know how to make a boy feel…”
special, is what he said, before following it up with
one of the most divine things a soul could sing: you
really are very funny; & i know he’s probably humouring me…
19/10/21 midway through creation
i go around in circles all the time. my teacher said to stop writing in hypotheticals & immediately i knew she was right & that she had found the little spiral centre of me that i had been hiding not-too-solemnly. it is hard for me to detach myself from the hypothetical, most of my days i live in there. before i knew any of this (of writing or understanding or knowing there was a world at all around me) i knew that committing myself to one idea was an utter travesty. of course there are ideas now that i hold close to me. but usually i hang barely-suspended & wishing i was okay with being a pendulum.
Read morethe culprit
but even then, only just
a little death
to have
oh please ! how unbearably boring. to want
is where all flowers bloom, despite this sauna
of good-feeling. what i have is safe & sound,
what i want coyly eludes me. eternal desire
plagued all the world’s poets, despite all the
world’s beauty; i want the entire room desirous,
a life of endless dreaming, half-fulfilled, omniscient,
all-yearning, all-fiending.
match
you struck the match—now swallow it.
if you can sympathise, we might just be in
the right place to make a wish. or be a prophet,
lay your head down. forget what made you
comfortable.
it is deeper now, so much darker than before
your head—solely unbalanced and wringing the towel
of insecurity. i have not made up my mind, or
blown out the candles. sometimes, it feels
like all that matters is the charcoal
caked against your tongue.
loading…
for better or for worse
i hope that you have
the day you deserve
28/09/21 class is soon
class is soon and i’ve exhausted all other forms of procrastination. i’ve done all the readings, given appropriate feedback, put on an inappropriate outfit, forgot to have breakfast (i actually had two sleeves of oreos and a handful of multivitamins, as if the two could counteract one another), & i danced to the same playlist that’s been on repeat for the past few weeks. i got a call from my boss asking me to work nine hours per day on the last three days of this year. i said yes eagerly; i don’t know why.
Read moreblue light/blue print
mostly the point
“hey! it’s the sweetheart,” Odin said, cutting our conversation short, his voice all sunshine and gladness. and when i looked up, i saw that he was right.
taking in her silhouette as it approached made me remember what it felt like to be awestruck, and the feeling only intensified until she was at our table and looking down at me with her sparkling eyes as if i were some poor creature she could pity or hopefully one day adore.
“Hina,” i said, not really knowing why a sudden warmth had started to scorch its way down my prickling neck. “Hina,” i said again, since the one utterance didn’t seem to suffice.
“hello darling,” she purred, and i wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or Odin.
i stood up to greet her, an old-fashioned impulse driving my legs up, and she pressed an imitation kiss to my cheek, holding my bare forearms in her small, manicured hands to keep me still as she did so. i didn’t say anything, just acquiesced, and as i sat back down i watched her do the exact same thing to Odin, beat for beat, as if she were greeting two of many fans queued up to witness her.
she took the seat next to me and opposite him, and then i was semi-trapped between the thick pillowy wall of the booth and her soft forgiving body and i was not the least bit upset by it.
Read moreadvice from an older sister
who am i to give it ? i’m pathetic, i’m half-
finished; i’ve not discovered a poem useful;
just like He, i do agree, i’ve not yet
made a thing that’s lasting
so when brother comes to me, little seeker,
i’m all surprise, i’m all a bit tender,
and taken aback and unprepared and
wholly ego, only trembling
i know that i know that i know nothing
or something very close to that.
but still, i give what’s only borrowed
my next best guess, my shot at it.
or at least i used to
no through road
olive tree
if carnality is inevitable, i’m hoping
it’s lusty & not homicidal
there’s a violence going around, kind of
insidious. yet so much of what hurts us is
so obvious about itself
if i had a magic coin, i wouldn’t spend it
on diamonds or drugs. i’d throw it
down a wishing well & hope it grew
an olive tree
isabel…
after the movies, but before the train station,
we hugged goodbye. i said, see you, like i always do;
unthinking, she hummed i love you,
then gasped. the perfect casual accident.
we parted ways in blushing silence,
my shock too thick to shake. though
across percussive tracks, an engine chanted
what i couldn’t…
you too you too you too
all the way home, you too, you too.
you tell me
hey.
i feel like i
think about you
too much. and
the more i try
to divine what
we are, the more
divine the answer
becomes.
writing advice 22/05/22
why do i write?
well, the list is long and in no discernible order. but i’ll start with the fact that writing brings me an inordinate, unnecessary amount of pleasure and joy. pleasure in every common and rarefied sense: it is a gustatory enjoyment, both cerebral and base, and as indecent as any other imaginable sin. words are like ingredients to me, or musical notes played in the scale only allowed in religious fantasies. learning new words feels like a treat i have not earned in any way, but have been given regardless. playing with words is as furtive and frenzied as all the great pleasures of the world. writing is an act of creation that never stops feeling blasphemous; it is every bit as divine as a mutiny.
Read moresp4ce
Saturn, pull me into orbit
i am outer space already
touch me, watch me waterfall
drapery, the velvet curtain
puddle on the floor.
Read moreivy, or envy
a cloud that hovers
proverbially challenged
Mr Gobbledygook
we had hung your portraits / right and left
in celebration / and after death
we sold them since / your music was no longer with us
your vinyls dusty / guitar lifeless
but five years later / walking through
an antique store / i spotted you
the painting could / in every way
be taken as / the very same
but Dad / this image was not you
scribbled eyes aflame and horns now fitted
and an extra set / of jet black tresses
O Father / your most final jest !
Read morewhen i’m with you, it’s always
emmy’s love letter to you
a little magic spell for you: yes! you are here.
Read moreheat, coiled / born to burn
praised one
drunk off
the aura
around you
i murmured
better late
than never
replied panting
my professor
gaze of harmony
3:00 AM
i groaned. “oh, why. why.” i groaned again, as if it could help the fact that my entire body felt like one giant, ready-to-burst artery. “i’m never drinking that much again. oh, Odin, mercy. hold me to that.”
“you have my word,” he said, every bit as solemn as a priest as he traced an x over his heart.
“thank you.”
he was leaning against the kitchen island, sans shredded costume and in comfier-looking attire: grey sweatpants and a dark, thin, oversized jumper. he seemed refreshed—less pitiable than he’d looked during rehearsal, for sure—but i could still see traces of clingy, raspberry-red blood caked under his short, usually-neat nails, and smudged around the backs of his ears. some of it was still clinging to the nape of his neck, matting his hair. i wondered if that was something he’d just gotten used to by now.
Read morein every princess, a hunger
which razes every decent sense, &
all polite thought. a tremor, a
terrific earthquake of sudden need,
as urgent & frightening as any
self-respecting deity.
gone / disappear here
stumblin’ in
much unlike an eye, or light, this
bruise of ours speaks often. you’re
very special, you know, so energetic
against the tired world. now & then
i’m astounded that we did not meet
on purpose.
who else hates a first draft ?
O, that is my hand heavenbound. i listen to what
i say & it collapses like fruitcake, like sand,
exactly as sustenant. a first draft might as
well be a first relative or first spider—just as
vulnerable, just as terrifying. all day a first
draft is being made, body-hot & uncomfortable.
sometimes, i’m ashamed of what i might trade
for a second, a third, or, God forbid, a darling
to save.
said the monster
to wake up now
girl, delighted
to not-knowing
if i could ask the stars a question
i’d block my ears before the answer
2
two-two was too satisfying. too late, it
was, & two-two too chilling at two past
two in the morning. too much wetness,
& hotness: a transgression too far gone
(twice) & a pulsing also doubly-done.
a little longer & it would’ve been two-three,
or three-two, or three-three at three &
who knows after that. i’d reached two
first, too hazy & plunging to hold back,
& hers came quickly after, too blasphemous
to handle. how to continue ? how to get
accustomed to the two-two parallel
that split me so prismatically ? i’m too
worried for my numbers, too pampered
to see a single digit ever again !
memory milkshake
to feel decent at all
today, i stepped on an ant hill
the freshest leaves
honey, a while ago,
i knew you—in some other fountain,
some other life:
i may have been a princess, & you
may have been trouble—a cottage
in the woods, a set of smoke rings
in flight:
the float home is a happening tragedy
i crave an endlessly deferred night.
poverty
sometimes beautiful
it is easy to recall the moment our friendship fractured. it is still readily available to relive in my mind, just as technicolour and bursting and tragic as any other momentous wound.
thinking back, i am just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. we were awful for each other from the very beginning, i now understand. but stitched through the awfulness, we really were sometimes beautiful.
like the time we sat under his family’s blossoming peach trees in the backyard and philosophised with the melting sun. his voice, i remember, was so soft and candy-sweet that the quiet animals of the outdoors tentatively approached to listen, too.
he’d always had that welcoming miraculousness, that inviting aura, which seemingly took effect on every earthly creature. myself included, which is why at the time, i didn’t think to bring up my mild peach allergy. i didn’t want to ruin the idyllic scene—wanted even less to interrupt his careful, dulcet musings—and when he handed me a freshly-plucked peach to eat, i pretended the buzzing against my lips was a kind of secret, tormented kiss.
Read moresilence, prolonged sinking
sorry, i was distracted. sylvia plath
was the world’s last poet, & her awful
daddy was the second last. there is much
& hardly anything to write about nowadays.
i was promised a good poem at the end of
a million shitty ones. true, i’ve not been counting,
but statistics could, for once, take pity.
if i had only one page left, & the last signs
of vital ink, i’d breathe in deep, compose myself,
& fill the space with
slow
when all the days blend together,
as if thickening in a pan. in all the mess,
i’m sure i miss a week at least, a month
at best. i gather
bulbs of wednesdays & add winter
nights to taste. i stir occasionally, invite
my friends around, & we pretend
we haven’t changed.
while writing, i’m thinking
little Saint Harry
the nearest plaything
i’m a toy. slightly more fun
broken in, & mostly there
to be dispensable
if you’re wondering about
that sound of plastic halves crunching – of
what it is, & how it feels
think of a million beautiful, perfectly-preserved seashells
ground to dust in greed’s Earth-shaped bowl
actual adoration
my irises turn to hearts & i write a word
for the first time. i’ve never gone so blurry-eyed
in under a second flat.
how thrilling and divine,
the exactmost pleasure of the poet…
to write about you, lyrically; to know
you could (indulgently) enjoy it…
honestly ?
a poem can never be helped, it
walks into the room at the same moment you do
this flush so close to permanence
have i told you that i adore you yet ?
Read morereusable rage
pineapple upside down cake
Pineapple Upside Down Cake is a double-voiced narrative poem, concerned with the fluctuations of power in a turbulent relationship.
In the following story, the character’s personalities, motivations, lifestyles, and emotions have been sculpted only through their dialogical choices. Mikhail M. Bakhtin’s philosophy of language—namely, that life is experienced and evidenced through dialogue—was a key component in the crafting process.
This piece contains sexual references, abusive and mature language, dysfunctional relationships, and violent imagery. Please proceed with caution.
Read moregalaxy
where should boys be looking—
at the ground or at the sky?
in the hand—the talking brick—
or deep in someone else’s eyes?
should boys be polite? and
understand? atone for things—
the where & when? these boys
are halfway gone already—
should we forgive them? and again?
Read morei wish i were a kitten
you can pet them / stroke them / play
with them / in the bath or / other choices
you can kiss and praise them / while they’re
in your lap / and making noises
the beach
yep, another
he’s very sweet and very dreamy on stage. despite the crowd of us which earnestly feels like the entire population of hawai’i has gathered to bask in his light, it feels like all night he is looking at me. i know it can’t be true or possible or even reasonable but it feels real, as real as anything, as real as midnight. and in this midnight i am rendered amazed and perplexed by his ability to be or transmit or imply sunlight when he sings and moves and watches me the whole time.
Read moreto have someone love you
in the slack dark of the dampest, most
tired spring evening—while they are trying
to sleep & you’re rambling—
& the day after, too, in the heathland,
between blocks of mushroom & the crunch
of pulverising shoe—while you unravel & they
are so natural in listening—
to have someone paint the needle-thin petals
on every flower for you—to have someone love
you so easy—to remind you of the miracle
of breathing
an hour after midnight
scribble on me
neon / technicolour / water-
soluble / or not, paint / or
magic markers i don’t care, just
something tracing / tracing now
& leave a mark / yeah leave a lot
likeable person%
to abundance
i’m so surprised & unconvinced
about the finiteness of the world
the truth still is:
if you want it all,
you can have it
all, you can have it,
more? whatever you want,
it’s yours
whatever you’re asking
you’re given – whatever it is,
delivered; if you’d surrender
to abundance.
Read morephntmlove(r)
i do think about it. i have desired—
uh, rewind—on & on, i have wondered,
bordering curious & perhaps perverse
about the cool midnight breeze
taking the shape of an invisible
lover, or maybe just a flurry of
translucent kisses…
on the pulse of the earth
there is a faultline that runs from you to me. i’ve taken it upon myself to be a detective, an exploring nuisance, my index finger dragging through the darkness of the earth to map out a path to you. if you’ve ever listened to the mid-morning birds you know what i mean. i’d dedicate my life to wandering if i could, make sure all roads led to you. one foot is one step & i’m trading secrets with other travellers, hoping wisdom can be transferred in a handshake or whisper.
there is an intense desire that forces in me a type of unwinding; your wonderful laughing & musical eyes inspire cliche. calling out cliche doesn’t excuse it, but there’s something about being disgustingly in love that seems to turn the whole world forgivable. when i’m not trawling through sugar-coarse soil, i spend obscene amounts of time with one hand over my stomach, one hand over my chest, trying desperately to separate or soothe the vibrations that threaten to turn me completely electric. you could use me to power your computer, your little singing toothbrush, your stack of unopened mail. if there’s one justice in my life it might involve turning my useless fingers into something productive.
if your body is a vessel i’m amorphous, a formless sludge around your contained-ness. nothing is as pathetic or trying as someone attempting to do a completed action. have you ever thought about the space between the page & the poem ? most nights, i dream of being that impossible, & that lovely.
your wolfish tones
, sweetheart
suffer me pt. 2
neon cables
23/03/2022 on Marilyn
much adored, much discussed, & pestered endlessly, even after death; the way i would sum her up doesn’t even involve my own words or creativity.
a stranger online, by some circumstantial miracle, facilitated in me one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments of utter illumination & clarity. this stranger had left a comment on a series of photos of Marilyn throughout her life. as clear as a bell, simple & awestruck as describing the weather, the comment read, in full:
“impossible to think that she once walked here.”
reading this was like remembering a dream from the womb. like putting on prescription glasses for the first time. the concision of their idolatry floored me. the summary of her mythology laid out bare, in ten words or less.
Read morehoney-voiced hymm saying emmy!!!
sampling your voice
you know you do it all the time, that breathy
loveliness, that reminder of other activities –
will you stay exactly there ?
couldn’t be any closer, couldn’t wish for a timbre
deeper, or any more sweetening that goes on –
would you put me out or the fire ?
no more questions, only water
experiment
to oil a shadow
is it possible to oil a shadow ?
to slickly soak the blank smoothness,
indulge in the curious essence of
the divine void divide…
been ruminating on & in the shadows
of how they’re not quite holes (maybe that
i provide) but still, still, still
an absence…
& lastly, how it could be true—
well, now, if thinking wishfully—
that perhaps the dark could slot right in,
eclipse this slant-shaped beam of mine.
whatever he did in those leather pants
that night, i wish i’d been there to see it. a draught,
talcum-heavy & him vibrating those metal strings,
i’d seize the thick heat of the musical Him. i’d
marvel at the voice that would not have recognised
itself twenty years earlier—at the homebody gone
carnal piñata—among the Greek chorus of shrieking
pubescence. & of all the things to see, after everything:
the metronome, typewriter, the new-fangled colour TV,
the christmas specials, & cash grabs disguised as movies,
after the worldwide wet dreams—i’d have wanted to see
the little death that night. i would have little died & died if
i’d had a chance to see it, to see
sub/ject
the subject / the antonym
Read more
how to make a man: a recipe
all the honey in the world
& curls, curls, curls
the loveliest eyes
of anticipated & much enjoyed mass destruction
patience & tenderness
& too much of it, really
if there ever was a man,
blushing women everywhere pray
the man is just like him.
2:43 am
when i went driving, the road was a ghost
the night so empty it was like wading through ink
car so steady i felt no misery could find me
too bad there’s always a catch
that sadness knows the short way back
the bakery
caution: wet floor. the
linoleum’s jelly—your
boots will smash right through.
allegiance to the lyre
can kissing
be animal ?
yesterday unearthed
me. you forbid sluice or blush—
how treacherous ! how just !
still plagued
by those whimpers, the
seed of all things ours
going freely overwhelmed—
unfinished by a patch
of flowers.
animus
an instinct. a target. don’t pray –
just listen closely – a sweetness in motion
you’re evincing the primal – so stay
you already know how we can be animal
tilt your head – not a word
& i’ll put my mouth on the pulse of the earth
ANGEL
it feels too fresh to be with
you. i splinter my teeth, my tongue flops
outta my jaw. let’s face it: you’ve
unhinged me. i’m not surprised –
there’s a possession happening a few
blocks from sunrise – not exactly roses &
cuddly. whatever happened to
your wings, angel ? someone
swindled you out of a halo.
no. 5
musing // hoping for pleasures entirely more than that // my eyelashes stick together // i don’t negotiate just body feel // capitulate // angled together // i’ve ignored all warnings // guess i deserve what’s coming
Read morei’m not sure what to say
but i’d be willing to
try. i just don’t understand
poetry. are you supposed
to be vague ?
it’s like you’re hiding
the message.
sosaystheman
the four stages of grief:
some corner where the meditation burns
the sinner that comes out of hiding
relentless disfiguring, excess removal
a constellation in the shape of a diamond
Read more24/06/2019 pretending to meditate
pretending to meditate is still meditation. pretending pretending to stream of thought consciousness is a way to write write write write write write wrong write write write write writer as faithfully as possible the human mind condition the actuality of writing under a creak in the door pausing still and silent pretending to meditate is still meditating meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation is still meditation meditation meditation meditation on the word is meditate on the word is meditation is meditation on the word is meditation on the why the word the word is on the word is on the word is on the word is on the reminded of the word of the meditation
of the word meditation faking meditation is still pretending to actually meditate the meditation in the faking is still trying to be meditation the mediate the meditation the why the word is meditation to meditation meditation meditation meditation making meditation making meditation the why the meditation the how the meditation the meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation sore the meditation slower meditation harder to see meditation meditation meditation meditate on meditation fill one hundred meditations on meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation is still meditation is still meditation
Read morelacking centre of gravity
anyone is the answer. thank
you is the question—
how to come out the other side
unscathed, clawing through cloud . . .
will i land in sweet Atlantis ? or
embed in Martian desert—
unsurprisingly, i’d give it all
to move in both directions.
omw !
Very Far Far ? Head Start Forever Away Too Much Gone Miles More Closer Getting Warmer Almost There ? In Sight Nearer Almost There Coming Approaching Right There Just Now Basically Here ! Here ! Here !
Read moreinertia
my home comes from your home
you let me in & trick me out
i hope i am not trauma tised
at least once a day it happens.
if your bones make my bones—
c’mon, into the fishbowl you
go. it’s not so easy, this sleeping.
poetry is nothing doing.
doing nothing can be easy
if you suck air from out of an
exhaust pipe. the bathtub,
the fireplace, the microwave—
at least once a day it happens.
Read morewhen it’s dark &
churches were made for blasphemy / for
blaspheming / under righteous ambivalence &
circumstantial / evidence / heaven was made
for Calgary / for suicidal ideation / for unwinding
an institution / for making hell / unpalatable
which bit ?
that’s good, to have a bit
of control. but which bit ?
you could definitely have
your pick, i know, luxuriate
in each flit of finger or blushing
lip. now where do all these pieces
fit ? unsticking me tenderly bit by
bit. but which bit ?
sugarcane | a cento
The first time someone called me “sweetheart”,
I sold my library, my piano. I boarded a train
tremulously in the direction of the beach.
I had the transport all to myself.
Lovely enchanting language, sugar-cane,
if you eat too much of it, you want more—
one part surge, another spray. One part the urging
you know by name.
Into this noise sailed
caged birds that sing, birds that talk—
and say that a poet wakes up one morning
for a single, beautiful word.
unrequited
i (understand that which you try to obscure) wish (for everything, but mostly your (fool that i was to underestimate) dilation) i (love the silhouette (you sink me in) more than i can (if you let me) say) was enough (of the pity, the (sweetness of your arcane transgressions) recovery) for (the dimensions of desire you’ve solely (& no doubt languished over) trapped me in) you
Read more
i’m so hungry when you want me
only empty empty empty
marvellous!
okay despite what everyone thinks
today was not a normal day. yes,
the universe still expanded, the
clock just kept on ticking but
You still Lived. and you Live
and what a gorgeous anomaly
that is.
sophia
maybe
proliferate / magnify capture ignite
more like this / or try / or try
i’d do it again / i’d listen / for / fire
mixing together / i think maybe
i’d like that !
this half
i’ve been looking for a cat fight
for some rough / glittery / bone-smashing fun
for us to wrestle & leave ex-best-friends
been looking for a pair of knuckles
to kiss, with my lips all swelled & bloody
for a musical note to be sawed almost off
for a reminder that violence owns
of hell, this half, this half
the Experience
i do i very much do want
the Experience. i want it so much
that it’s become its own Experience
oh my gosh at all this wanting. &
all the having, all the time. the world splits
open like a fresh pomegranate, the Experience
bursts continuously in my mouth
the new moon is a fresh citrus just
Experienced perfectly on the riper side & sliced,
firmly slides into the fizzy cocktail of night
what a wonder, what all life’s good for
this Experience, this fruity segment of mine
alphabet sonnet
AFFAIR ADORED ADVICE ASLEEP ALONE
BEGAN BENEATH BIZZARRE BUFFET BOUQUET
CAFFEINE CREATES CONFUSED CONCISE COLOGNE
DEFACED DEFEAT DENOUNCED DEFAULT DECAY
ENOUGH ESCAPE EXCUSE EVENT EMBAYED
FATIGUE FORGIVE FORBID FONDUE FORTELL
GROTESQUE GALORE GENTEEL GAMETE GRENADE
HEREBY HARASS HIMSELF HARPOON HOTEL
INSPECT INSIDE IMBIBE INGORE INTO
JEROME JUSTINE JIANG JOQUAIN JAMAL
KORAN KIBBUTZ KUWAIT KEBAB KAZOO
LIQUEUER LAPEL LAMENT LAGOON LOCALE
MASSAGE MYSELF MATURE MALAISE MILITE
NEGATE NEGLECT NONPLUSSED NONSTICK NONWHITE
a list of names to call your lover
1. darling peaches
2. your 2D shadow
3. midnight poem
4. a consequence of art
5. the law of increasing returns
6. Heaven’s apology
7. PIP (person in proximity)
8. lemon wedge
9. the culprit
10. part of your equation
11. your beautiful prime number
12. [lovingly redacted]
13. dreamlike representation
14. villain purple
15. the unmistakable truth
16. intoxication / soft incarnate
17. the word on the mouth of the universe
yes
O yes i told him yes
i Do want yes to touch you yes
right now yes i want to yes
yes i need yes for you to kiss
disposable watermelon
thank you october 2nd
desolate lands
CHOOSE YOUR…
Disclaimer: this is part of a larger work. Check out the narrative or mystical elements if you’re interested ! FIGHTER LOVER
Read moreTrue Tarot (Libidinous Consort Cards)
Disclaimer: this is part of a larger work. Check out the narrative and visual elements if you’re interested !
THE MAJOR ARCANA / THE LIBIDINOUS CONSORT
Read morethe colour of quarks
being queer is being pleasure. it is the highest form of art. when you are queer (which is when you are always) you pity those who aren’t. being queer undoes your seatbelt—it is the stranger at your door. when you are queer, you’re so insufferably good-feeling—a bigot mourns. being queer makes you a blessing—the next day alive can be a miracle—since rising from a stupor is defiance, pure & simple. being queer is navigational—though versatility is welcome. it is eating from the dog bowl—& then surfing in stilettos. being queer is quick to suffer; both erotic & lubricious. it’s perverting prior signals—holding hands turns fetishistic. being queer is on the weekend. or it is crushed into your coffee. it’s a painless execution—with you at church, on both your knees. being queer is biodegradable (just not in the way you think). being queer is body-hot—feeling so horny that you vomit. being queer is hand on throat. a ring of bruises; righteous necklace. being queer’s a melting ice cube—forever sliding down your sternum. being queer is proof of bullets—or else the shore of foamy leisure. being queer is subatomic—inextricable from nature.
Read moreThe Libidinous Consort (Narrative Only)
Disclaimer: this is part of a larger work. Check out the other visual and mystical elements if you’re interested !
God opened the clouds one evening and delivered a message to the house of The Professor and The Queer. The two of them had been enjoying a quiet dinner, like always, when an omnipotent cough startled them both into alertness.
“You have been assigned a task,” God said. The Professor—rapturous—and The Queer—bemused—listened carefully. The arcane voice seemed to be coming from everywhere. “There is a place on Earth you must visit for me.”
“Where is this place?” asked The Professor, looking to the ceiling. “What shall we do once we get there? And why?”
God’s voice boomed: “It is lost to me—you must find it. You must follow these directions.”
Read moreand ever more stranger
i. duodenum
so i stooped by the pond and opened my mouth as wide as it would go and that’s when the fish slid out. all slimy and cold, it was a big, white fish, with splotches of red and black; it fell with a splash into murky water where it looked like it belonged. i gaped and shuddered as the now-emancipated creature darted away. my unhinged jaw wouldn’t close.
my open palms pressed flat and hard against the cool pavestones that lined the shallows. with my bare knees pressing painfully into the semi-damp earth, i’m sure i looked like i was trying to summon a deity from the ground / single-handedly reverse the axis of the world / split the brick right down the middle. my throat was dilated and coated in stringy mucus. my intestines were swollen, twisted ribbons.
i clutched my stomach and doubled over again and my nose touched the surface of the water as meters of seaweed slithered out of my throat and into the depths of the pond. my stomach went from distended to calm as it all unfurled. then the nausea dissipated.
Read moreso in raptures
i swear i had never heard a man so in raptures before. his voice like an incantation — all at once, i was falling through the floorboards, transported to the last time (birthday party, beach) where he and i had first created / shared / indulged in our (this) tremendous illicitness. it was bad then, so it must be doubly bad now — a year later to the date — this time indoors (his place, poker night) instead of all sunshine and sandy.
he was bad for me. bad for me like really really very bad for me. he was wrong for me and yet i was wondering where next he might grab me ;; take me hold me grip my thighs (his hand compressing pliant flesh my eyes ignoring his ring finger with that awful damning tan line) — i wasn’t sure if he knew just how much i knew that what we were doing was at best immoral. at worst …
“we’d better not again; there’s no way,” i said, “we couldn’t though, do you think?”
“i think i need to,” he said, and the way his voice was light and breathy and airy like he was on the precipice of the most divine pleasure and too gone to hold it back made me shiver with delight. and after needing twice before … !
Read moreted bundy
did you know
his knees buckled when he got to the chair
your answer
oh honey surely lovely
turn it wonderful & being suddenly
desirous. did you ask it now ? or you
wanted ? whatever it is – may you ask
& always wind up with your answer
city graffiti
the train feels like a lullaby. is there
a ghost or is that me ? music swirling
imperceptibly. i need to stop falling
in love with every stranger that has
a pen behind their ear.
the sky is out today ! just for you. or
was it me ? the clouds make soliloquy
easy. i can’t imagine being any more
tender. pressing on the obscure part
of the two-way mirror, setting fire to
a skirt.
this metal curve is a recipe for sea-
sickness. should i put you underwater ?
or wet you just enough to kiss ?
PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE TENSE
when i say pink i mean a loving deity. poetry
makes for unwinding an insinuation. i am decidedly
hard to understand & obtuse for the pleasure of it. so
when i say lightning i mean ether in my hand. when
i say ocean blue, i mean the spirit in feathers, &
floating through a higher field. when i say lavish
i mean stacked rings, frosted cupcakes. eh maybe
obscurity is my trendy defence mechanism. i
guess when i say chemistry, i mean undulating
waves. when i say organised i mean a hurting world
trying to hammer out its growing pains. but listen
when i say black lives matter. i mean
black lives matter.
windows
listening ! i’m so lovely in listening
with you. oh how there’s a dripping sink
here somewhere. oh how i’m desperate to
believe it.
but to know it ! what language did you
speak ? how did the fire know to find you ?
something ripped up by the roots. waiting
patiently for loving lucid !
of course there’s such a thing as wonder.
here, & now, you make it obvious, impossible
to resist.
& sinker
(he kills me when
he does) me like that. i’m
coolly out of breath, waiting
for his magic hand to brand
me back open again (hooking
my thumb around the fishing
pole. his steel splinter), only
deliciously caught & unassuming
is up the righter flesh in mine undone,
& the death that calls—like i did, once.
the museum
walking through the same exhibits
i walked with you
sorry, i keep turning
to say something
keep finding
my reflection
excitable type
there is too much love
in the world
to hold you back from it. i
wouldn’t dare
for every flower, i want you
a bouquet
& every sunset, i want
the blue ball into a flame
how can i help it ?
this loving of you
this ocean is madness
every kiss
just practice
a poem is a kind of painting
an arty girl wants to know about you
a writer still needs a studio
baby
what would you do if you weren’t afraid
i’m askin’ i’m feelin’ tender
it happens in my body. i go blue or dark blue
where that spectre haunts me, reminds me of
a place i’m not allowed to go
please make an exception
make me your poor exception
& if you weren’t at all afraid
if the world unfolded, right in front of you
what would you do ?
what would you do.
in an hour
in an hour i can make it happen four or five times. maybe six—i’m overzealous. got nothin’ better to do in the hot cold night; nothing more singular than reaching, eyes shut, screwed shut. i’d like to think that some words, like some numbers, are more greedy than others—definitely more tempted; overwhelmed & desirous. tell me not to escalate & i will honour that, only for as long as i can hold before dissolving, never to be seen again for the next two or five minutes. an hour is a lot of time to make a thing happen, i’ve got time for an hour if it involves making lewd decisions. no other path could be as frightful or delirious, unweaving slick from tyrant digits—no more i’m absolutely stuffed i’m sure i’m mumbling as faithlessly as possible half-hoping to believe myself. an hour can be ravenous, borderline savage or vital-quiet in execution. do you glut yourself over & over, do you turn into a pulpy mess ? a justified question from no voice in particular & it is exactly knowing, only speaks for the pleasure of igniting something no less temperate than the goddamn world on fire.
Read moredr.
yes !!! he would eat me. um—more murderous than sexy. geez, hope he’d turn me into something sweet, serve me to a crowd of serious & important (seriously important?) socialites at a dinner party. i’d be something swirly, & glazed, with a french-sounding name. people would hang faux-impartial ’round the banquet table & he’d just smirk into his champagne.
the party would last for hours. mouths working, unbearable conversation. the average of his pulse & mine would be extremely casual. fragrance rising & a tight confinement in grey slacks, very excited by his cleverness. each bite a little shiver of satisfaction, all the more reason to do it again, none of me left & no one dares forget their compliments to the chef !
Read moreif my brother had taken another look around pt. 2
well, i’d be luckier than leon. i’d not remember
those thick stormclouds, or the lightning that
bloomed, but my brother
would have seen it all, & we’d talk,
bright-lit under a shell-pink august moon.
i would listen. i’d drive in circles, make sure
he missed each later flight. i would ask for
proof of rest. ask he forgive the world
its tenderness.
we’d watch the sky, then we’d be quiet.
i’d point at stars above his head. each time
i saw his eyes dip down, i would
insist he look again.